


all eyes on you

by theredhoodie



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredhoodie/pseuds/theredhoodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels weird to be <i>picked up</i> for a date, considering most of the time she does the driving to and from dates. This is an entirely different situation. The reason? This date is with not, in fact, the younger Bates brother, but his older counterpart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all eyes on you

**Author's Note:**

> I was in dire need of something adorable for these two. I hope this is sufficient.
> 
> Also shoutout to my beta Jessie for making sure my sentences make sense and I stay in one tense!
> 
> PS. the title comes from a song by St. Lucia that always reminds me of cute dates.

Emma Decody is going on a date. This date will not include someone's parents, a stroll through the woods, or a dead body—If she is lucky, that is. This date involves her primping herself as much as possible, showing off her legs and her shoulders, smoothing back her hair in a high ponytail—she never wears ponytails but her  _date_  often mentions how pretty her face is without her hair hiding it—and wrapping a scarf around her oxygen tank that matches her dress.

Standing in front of her long mirror, she smooths her hands over her dress and tilts her head to the side. She hesitates, about ready to pull her hair down because all she sees with her hair back is her oxygen tube looking back, but she stops herself.

She resists licking her lips and instead leans closer to check for any obvious mistakes regarding her makeup. After her inspection, she steps back, resting her hand on the handle of her tank and making a face in the mirror at herself. "Guess this is as good as it's gonna get," she says, shrugging a shoulder and turning around on bare feet.

Leaning on the edge of the bed, she pulls on her heels and straps them around her ankles. Teetering nearly five inches taller than her five-foot-five height, she just reaches toward her dark denim jacket lying on the end of her bed when she hears the doorbell ring.

"Damn," she says, unable to have one last look before she picks up her tank and does her best to rush down the stairs, but failing miserably. Her dad is reaching toward the door before she can stop him.

She probably looks frantic, but she manages to set her tank down on the ground as her dad pulls open the door.

It feels weird to be  _picked up_  for a date, considering most of the time she does the driving to and from dates. This is an entirely different situation. The reason? This date is with not, in fact, the younger Bates brother, but his older counterpart.

"Oh, hello," her dad says in his usual cheerful manner. "You must be here for my daughter."

Emma rolls her eyes, stepping forward and dragging her tank behind her. " _Dad_ ," she says in that typical teenage whine that she's adopted in the more recent years. She turns to Dylan. "Hi."

He stands there, hands shoved in his pockets, wearing nothing dissimilar to what he normally wears, except his shirt is actually some sort of button up by the looks of it. Emma guesses Norma gave it to him.

"Hi," he replies. He flashes her that flushed smile she's noticed he tends to give whenever she's around.

Her dad hovers by the door, not unkindly, until Emma looks over at him and widens her eyes. He then takes in a breath as if suddenly coming to life and waves a hand. "Right. Please, keep her safe. Have a nice evening."

Emma shakes her head as he leaves and grabs her tank with one hand; she has her jacket tucked under her other arm for when it gets colder. "Let's go," she says lightly, stepping out onto the front step and closing the door behind her.

Dylan stays there, unmoving. "You look really nice," he says, still smiling that smile.

It's cramped on the step and she's almost as tall as him in her shoes. She glances at him and flashes a bright smile. "Um…thanks," she says before stepping down to the walkway.

Her face is definitely a deep shade of red that she wonders if he can see as he falls in step next to her. "Your dad's okay with you going out with me?" he asks as they close in on his truck idling at the curb. He opens the door for her and she manages to climb up into it as gracefully as possible without flashing him her underwear.

She settles herself in, her tank at her feet. "Well, he doesn't exactly know what business you're in, so he doesn't have any reason to worry," she says, looking down at him. "Should he be?"

"Worried?" He frowns for half a second and shakes his head. "Nah, I think I'm pretty safe."

She gives him a half smile and he laughs, shutting the door and leaving her momentarily alone until he wrenches open the drivers' side door and heaves himself inside.

Emma folds her jacket over both of her arms and hides her hands in her lap. Her dress feels  _incredibly_  short now that she's sitting down. "I'm usually all about the surprises, but lately I'd rather  _not_  be shocked." She doesn't have to say why. Both of them had their nerves frayed pretty thin as of late because of everything that's been going on in White Pines Bay. "So where are we going? I hope not the woods. I would die wearing these shoes."

She twists her ankle a little as if to show him. He looks at her feet and then, in that blatant way that he does everything, drags his eyes up her bare legs to the hem of her skirt, up her torso and to her face. She hopes the heat rushing to her face blends into the makeup she put on before leaving the house.

"You're fine," he says, turning his eyes toward the windshield. "Are you hungry now? I was thinking mini-golf, and  _then_  food, but we can do it the other way around."

She looks at the clock on the dashboard. It is already eight, but her stomach is currently home to a family of butterflies, so food can wait. "Mini-golf?" she echoes, looking over at him as the truck starts forward. It takes all of her effort not to smile the entire time.

"Is that cool?" he asks.

The undertone is him asking if it was too strenuous for her, but they were going to play  _mini-golf_ , not football. "Yeah. But I haven't been since I was like eight."

He nods and his grip on the wheel loosens. She wonders if  _he's_  nervous. Which would be adorable, now that she thought about it. Neither of them really have any reason to be nervous; it's not like they're strangers. The amount of drama they've been through together is enough to make them close. This is just the whole  _next step_  thing that is shifting everything about their relationship.

"I think I've gone one time," he replies honestly. "I thought it'd be fun."

Emma's smile falls slightly, reminded for a moment of just how different their lives had been and would continue to be; her childhood, illness included, was probably better off than his ever was.

"How's your, um…your farm doing?" she asks finally. She's genuinely curious. She doesn't make a habit of visiting that place—not for any particular reason. Being around weed doesn't bother her in the slightest, considering the town she grew up in, and Dylan was being legal about it. It's mostly that grizzly man neighbor who creeps her out and keeps her away.

"It's good," he nods, sinking back in the seat. "Thanks for asking. Norma never asks. She doesn't want anything to do with what I do."

Emma shrugs a shoulder. "I grew up in White Pines. I'm used to it."

"Yeah."

"Um…so, I know that you said mini-golf, Dylan, but it's…after hours." She looks over at him.

He smirks and glances over at her. "You trust me, right?"

She leans her temple back against the headrest and slides her fingernails against each other under her jacket in her lap. "I guess," she teases.

#

"I know a guy who works here," Dylan says, helping her out of the truck. It's dark, but it's an asphalt parking lot so she's steady on her feet when her heels hit the ground. "He gave me a key."

"So this isn't illegal?" she asks, following him toward the small structure that houses not only the arcades, but the balls and putters, too.

He glances at her over his shoulder. "Nah. Don't worry." He pushes open the door and waves her inside.

She raises an eyebrow at him but walks past him. She runs her hand along the wall, lifting her tank behind her. "I can't see anything," she whispers in the dark.

He slides by her and flicks on the lights. She walks beside him to the ticket booth and walks inside after popping open the door.

"Aren't people gonna see us?" she asks, leaning on the doorway. He pulls open a small metal box on the wall and flicks up a few switches. To her left, she sees lights flood outside.

"The trees block most of the light from the street," Dylan says. It's true; the place is not only away from the main road, but it's down a dirt path with yards and yards of thick trees between the lights and the street.

"What color do you want?"

"Hmm?" She turns back to him and then cranes her neck to see the golf balls lined up in wait. "Oh, um…green. It's my favorite color."

He plucks out a lime green one for her and a white one for himself. He grabs two clubs too and then slides into the doorway. It is a small doorway and their faces are momentarily close as he grins and then jerks his head to the side.

"C'mon, let's go."

She follows him out the door and onto the Astroturf. "Is it bad that this feels kinda exciting?"

He turns toward her. "Good. Exciting is good." He grins and offers her a putter.

"I don't typically do illegal things. Besides drive a car full of marijuana plants through town to your farm," she adds, tilting her head to the side.

"I told you," Dylan says, stepping up to her and gently nudging her chin with his fingertips, "this ain't illegal, Emma."

She smiles and glances down. "Okay, okay. Who starts? Are we keeping score?"

Dylan taps a finger to his temple. "I'll keep score. You can start." He steps aside and offers her the first home plate. "D'you need help?"

A million and one movies flash through her mind where a guy  _helps_  a girl with a sport like this. She chuckles, bends her knees to crouch down, and places her ball in the middle divot.

"Thanks, but I think I got it."

He steps aside and watches her hold the club and taps the ball like she is an expert. Her ball goes right in and she can't help but clench her hand into a fist and turn around with a triumphant smile.

"Huh, what'd I tell you?"

"Okay, okay," Dylan nods. He steps forward with his own club and she watches, trying not to bite her bottom lip. She wore makeup precisely to look and feel nice tonight; she didn't want to ruin it on nerves. His ball goes right to the edge of the hole, but doesn't make it in.

"Oh- _ho_ , so close," she grins.

"Yeah, yeah," Dylan waves his hand at her and taps the white ball in. "I told you I only did this one other time."

"Uh-uh. No excuses, Dylan," Emma says as he swoops down to retrieve their balls. She lifts her tank and club in one hand and joins him at the second hole. "Oh look, this one has a little hill."

She says it in such a way that it sounds as if she's just spotted a goose laying a golden egg. The sense of childhood wonder is gone in a moment, but evident in the air—electric even.

Dylan puts her ball down on the middle divot for her and then stands back. "Go for it."

She doesn't sink it in one, but two. She accepts it more eloquently than he did.

"Wait, wait, wait," she says, walking toward him while waving him toward her. They meet in the middle; he looks at her quizzically. "Maybe this'll help." She takes one of his hands and unbuttons the cuff before folding it up a handful of times to his elbow. "Why are you wearing this thing? You do know this is _me,_  right? I've seen you covered in your own vomit before."

"Thanks for reminding me." Dylan scoffs and shakes his head. "Norma gave it to me. She cares about you a lot. Wants you to have the best."

Emma finished folding up his other sleeve and looks up at him with what little space is between them due to her heels. "Does that bother you? I mean…sometimes I feel like she treats me better than she treats you. I don't want to drive a wedge between you."

"What?" He frowns. "No, no. It's nothing like that. It's different between you and me anyway."

"Oh," she says, avoiding his eyes and looking down at their hands that are still holding onto each other. Not tightly, but still.

"Hey, my mom's not here on this date with us," he says, brows furrowing.

It isn't often that Dylan calls Norma his mom. It almost takes her by surprise. It is also an echo of her own words toward Norman when they went out on their first, and only, actual date.

"Right," she says, lifting one of her hands and pushing nonexistent hair behind her ear out of habit. "Sorry, I'm just…never mind. It's your turn." She steps back off the turf and he plays the hole.

#

They get through half the holes—Dylan's game is not any better even with his sleeves rolled up—before Emma hit her ball into the tiny algae filled puddle of a pond.

"Oh,  _shit_ ," she says as soon as sees it happen as if it did in slow motion. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just did that!" She hurries over to the side and squints into the water.

"Hey, hey, don't worry," Dylan says, coming up behind her quickly and making her jump when he put her hand on her back. "Can you see it?"

Emma adjusts to the warmth of Dylan's hand leaking through her thin dress and notices just how quiet her nerves had become. "Um…" She squints her eyes. "Oh! Right there." She points and he follows her finger.

Taking his club with him, he scoots around the edge of the fake pond until he's close enough to where the ball is bobbing close to the wall of the fake cave. It takes him a few tries, but he uses the club to hook the ball and drag it close.

"Don't fall in, that water looks disgusting," Emma warns as he wavers slightly.

"I got it, I got it," he says, sweeping the ball out of the water and shaking it off. "See?"

"My hero," Emma laughs, holding out her hand for the golf ball.

He smiles this goofy, sideways smile that makes her stomach twist in a way that she's not used to. It's a feeling she didn't get with Norman, or even Gunner. She can't help herself and licks her lips before stepping back to redo that hole. This time, she doesn't shoot the ball into the water but it takes her five times to get it in.

"Now, how the hell'm I supposed to see the next hole," she complains, waving her hand in the direction of the cave. "There aren't lights in there."

"There are too," Dylan insists, moving close behind her. "Don't you trust me?"

Emma can feel his breath on the shell of her ear and takes a breath to steady herself. "Why do I need to trust you in a dark cave? Should  _I_  be worried?"

He slides his hand across her back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. "Nope. Now, the hole's through the cave on the other side," he says, pointing with his club.

She nods and takes a step toward the home plate. "You make it sound so easy." She crouches down again, readjusts the oxygen tube over her left ear and then sets up her stance.

She gets a hole in one.

"You're shitting me," Dylan says disbelievingly from behind her as she gives a little jump of triumph and spins around to face him.

"I'm sorry, am I hurting your ego, Dylan?" she asks, resting her palms against the handles of her oxygen tank and putter on either side of her.

"A little bit, yeah."

She bit her bottom lip and tilted her head to the side. "I would say I'm sorry, but I don't like to lie."

"You're ruthless."

#

The hole before last has a windmill. It isn't, however spinning currently since all Dylan had done was turn on the overhead lights. He stands close beside her at the home plate as they look at the immobile prop.

"Well, this blows," Emma says finally.

"I hope this won't ruin your night," Dylan replies loftily.

She turns her head quickly toward him, her nose almost brushing against his cheek. Her heart flutters momentarily at the contact. "Not really," she says softly before turning back and blinking at the windmill. "And I bet I can still beat you."

He steps aside as she goes for the hole first, getting it in two shots. Dylan does the same, leaving them with the last hole.

"Is this one of those ones that steals the balls at the end?" Emma asks, moving toward the actual hole and sticking her hand inside. She answers her own question. "Nope."

"You look happy about that," Dylan comments as she comes back to stand by him.

"I wanna keep this," she says, lifting her green golf ball on her fingertips like it was made of gold.

" _That_?"

"I like keeping memoirs sometimes," she says, dropping it on the right side of the home plate. "If I get a hole in one here, I win right?"

Dylan tips his head back. "Uh…yes."

She smirks and moves into place. It takes her longer than necessary to hit the ball, but Dylan patiently waits. When she finally hits it, it's like time runs slowly and she holds her breath as the ball inches toward the hole.

Emma's eyes widen and she clenches her hands into fists, holding them in front of her chest. The ball rolls to the edge of hole and she keeps her breath held until it falls in.

"Woo!" She exclaims and jumps, spinning around and grinning at him.

He just shakes his head at her little victory dance down the green. "That's it, you beat me."

"Oh, no, you  _have_  to do the last one," Emma insists, situating herself at the end near the PVC pipe hole.

"You're trying to kill me," Dylan chuckles, but he does what she says. He sets up his ball and walks behind it as it moves toward the hole. It doesn't quite make it there and he has to tap it in with a second swing. "Surprise, surprise, you beat me, Emma."

She hops down onto the turf and rests her elbow on his shoulder. "You did okay," she says lightly, kissing his cheek. "But you're right. I totally beat you."

He moves away from her just enough to swoop down and take their golf balls out of the last hole. "Does second place get a prize?" Dylan asks, holding out the lime green ball toward her.

The butterflies in her stomach stir again. "I think so," she says with a smile. She takes a step closer, hooking her arm around his neck, and kisses him. It's nothing special; first kisses are typically awkward, but it's not bad. She pulls back after a few short seconds, not able to hide the slight hint of nerves still in her expression.

"Not a bad prize," Dylan says. It's not cocky or arrogant, but genuine. And then his slides his hands around her waist and kisses her again. She doesn't need to, but she pushes herself up a little higher on her toes and kisses him back.

It doesn't take her long to lose her breath—it never does—and she falls back on her heels, her hand behind his neck still clutching her dirty golf ball. "So, how about dinner?"

#

Dinner turns into two small to-go boxes of lo mien from the Chinese place on the edge of town. Dylan drives them off away from prying eyes and they sit on his truck tailgate, eating out of white containers with a mixture of forks and chopsticks.

Emma shamelessly stuffs her face for the first three minutes because she's so hungry, frankly, she's surprised that she hadn't realized it earlier.

"Is it good?" Dylan asks, an adoring little glint in his eyes.

She nods and ducks her head, swallowing what's left in her mouth, feeling self-conscious. "I'm so hungry, I'm sorry," she says.

He just shakes his head. "Eat up. It's pretty good, right?"

"Very good," she agrees, going back to eating. They're relatively quiet for the next five minutes, just enjoying their food and the clear sky full of stars.

"Y'know what?" Dylan says finally.

"What?"

"I uh…I was pretty nervous about tonight."

She wipes her lips with her thumb and looks over at him. "Were you really?"

"Yeah," he nods, looking sheepish.

"If it makes you feel any better, I was too. But this is way better than our first date."

"We had a first date?" He sounds surprised.

She laughs. "Yeah, don't you remember? Norman had a blackout, we had to watch over him or your mom probably would have fired me and kicked you out."

Dylan thinks about it and tilts his head skyward before looking over at her and meeting her eyes. "That's true. This one is way better. No Norman."

"That's a big plus," Emma laughs, setting her almost empty container down next to her.

"You have your hair back," Dylan mentions, lifting his hand to slide his palm over her neck and twisting his fingers in her loose hair.

"You told me you like my hair back," she says, avoiding his eyes for a moment before looking right at him.

"I do. I can see your face. It's a cute face."

She rolls her eyes. " _Please_." She lifts her own hands and pulls off her oxygen tube, letting it fall to the metal of the tailgate.

"Emma…"

"It's okay. We're not doing anything really taxing."

She's seen that look in people's eyes before. People don't always recognize her without her oxygen tube. It changes her face more than people, even herself, realize until it's gone.

Dylan rests his knuckles lightly against her cheek and brushes his thumb across her cheekbone, free of clear tubes. He leans forward to kiss her, but she puts her fingers on his mouth and stops him.

"Don't kiss me. I've just been eating…soy sauce and onions," she says in that matter-of-fact way that does when she says something she wants or, in this case, doesn't.

Dylan chuckles and removes her hand. "We've been eating exactly the same thing."

Emma holds his gaze for a short moment before she shrugs. "Okay, whatever," she says, just before he kisses her. Each time is better than the next, even including the soy sauce and onions.

She could get used to this.


End file.
